


The Bunker

by buttsbeyondbutts



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: A Smiling God, M/M, POV Second Person, Post Episode: e037 The Auction, Post-Episode: e049 Old Oak Doors Part B, Rape/Non-con Elements, lot 37
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-16 01:37:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3469580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttsbeyondbutts/pseuds/buttsbeyondbutts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You don't remember what happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bunker

Out in the sand wastes, there is a man in a tan jacket. He won’t hurt you. He will not hurt you. You are important. Other people are less important. Other people are not important at all.

Out, beneath the sand wastes, The Man in The Tan Jacket sits in a metal bunker. There is a chair and a table in the bunker but he does not sit on either of those. He sits on a large, metal crate, thick with rust and age, and leans against the wall. A deer skinned brief sits on the floor next to him. The wall is gray or green, depending on the light. The light now is a swinging bulb above the table, but there have been other lights. There have been other, terrible lights in this place but they are gone now. The citizens of Nightvale, each in varying degrees of importance, beat that awful light back into the wastes of the universe, endless as the wastes of sand above.

Out on the sand wastes, you walked. You don’t know why you did this. After your radio broadcast ended, you had planned to go home, make a light meal of pasta and red wine and wait for your boyfriend to call, though he has called less and less since becoming trapped in that desert other world. You had planned to re watch some episodes of the classic 90s sitcom _Mortal Enemies_ recently added to Netflix but as they say, if you want to make the city council shrug, the sheriff’s secret police smirk, a vague yet menacing government agency roll their eyes or the race of lizard people who control our every move and thought laugh, tell them your plans.

So you walk out on the sand wastes, with no memory of the words sung to you in a smooth genderless voice from the mouth of a large horse fly, with no memory of the horse fly at all, with no memory of each step the moment your foot hits the ground, to the bunker. The man in the tan jacket is waiting for you. When you enter the bunker, he tells you to lie down on the table. You will not remember the words a moment after they leave his mouth but you will obey. Later, you will not remember obeying.

The Man with The Tan Jacket stands over you. He touches your face, his fingers tracing the outline of your high cheek bones, as though marveling at how sharp they are. The fingers move down your face, very gently, to trace the tendrils of your black and purple tattoo, just peeking out from beneath your shirt. The Man in The Tan Jacket unbuttons your shirt and your wish to protest fades as quickly as it occurred, like water evaporating before it hits the ground of this hot, hot desert. The Man in The Tan Jacket shrugs out of his tan jacket, letting it fall to the floor. He kisses you and calls you beautiful. He calls you Lot 37. He tells you that you are good. You are important.

Even as he says the words, you forget them. His touches fade even as they begin and you will never remember what he looks like but in that moment , in that moment between knowing and forgetting such knowledge ever even existed, The Man, now without his Tan Jacket, is beautiful as well.

Time passes. Time passes whether you are aware of it or not. Actually, no. Whether time passes has nothing to do with your awareness of the passage of time or lack there of. Sometimes, time does not pass but it does pass, in the bunker beneath the sand wastes with it’s swinging light and table and chair and rusted metal crate. You are not aware of time passing but when The Man redonns his Tan Jacket and allows you to stand and dress yourself again, you know that time has passed. When he allows you to leave the bunker and stand alone under the moon and the cold, dying stars, you know that time has passed but you do not know what occurred in its passing.

You have no memory of the man or the bunker or why you are where you are. You remember only that this is not where you planned to be. This is not a new experience, for really anyone. So you shrug and you start back across the sand wastes, toward the lights above The Arby’s.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I... what did I write? Something about who purchased Lot 37: Cecil Palmer, and what they did with him other than protect Dana? 
> 
> I don't remember anything and every time I go back to read it, I don't remember what I read. 
> 
> Weird.


End file.
